


Sed Diabolus

by dragonnan, KitCat992



Series: Diabolus'verse [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Demonic Possession, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Stephen Strange, IronDad and SpiderSon, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Precious Peter Parker, Villain from the Comics, Whump, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat992/pseuds/KitCat992
Summary: The great epic has begun.  They say history is recorded by the victors.  Well history, then, has yet to be written.  Heroes have fallen and the world is a ruin of chaos and self-destruction.  The time of the apocalypse has come.  Who, then, will stand and face the Devil?Thanos left an indelible mark.  What was undone was far from erased and the world is the poorer for the losses he brought to bear.  But he is not the only being of power looking to claim Earth as its throne.  The enemy from the heavens was defeated.  But it is the enemy from the darkest and deepest places who may prove to be the final death knell for the universe.And yet... hope comes...Like the ringing strike of a hammer against iron...





	1. Prologue: The First Circle, Limbo: Virtuous Pagans and the Unbaptized

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KitCat992](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat992/gifts).



> NOTE: I've updated the cover art with this STUNNING design created by @KitCat992

[](https://postimages.org/)

҉

It was a pretty great view. He'd been meaning to check it out; sometime. Those weeks spent in his (new) room; dishes of food going cold at his elbow while he'd sat at his computer and clicked through five years of history that he hadn't lived. Most of the news stories had been about the failing economy; the declaration of martial law around the country, the breakdown of infrastructure. His current roosting spot was exactly the same as it had been the day he'd... dusted. Skyline Tower had been scheduled for completion in 2020. Three years later and, like so many other construction projects, it was an abandoned property with naked I-beams stabbing towards the clouds. It would probably never be finished. Not the way things were, now.

It was bad. So bad. So, so, so bad!

Panic had been clawing at Peter for the better part of three days, now. He hadn't spoken to MJ, or Ned. He was being a coward, he knew, but he'd screwed everything up so much and didn't want them stuck in his mess worse than they already were.

Nothing had been right since Titan.

He hadn't gone back to the apartment. The new apartment.

May was worried but he'd assured her he was fine. Everything was okay; he just needed... he had to think. And he wasn't doing her any favors staying at the apartment, the new apartment, with reporters crawling everywhere. He had begged her to stay with Happy (and he didn't want to analyze that too closely). The media may know who he was but he bet they didn't know about Happy or where to find him. May would be safe. Peter...well, he knew how to hide.

What would Tony...?

No. Nope. He couldn't think about that. He couldn't; no, not no, not now!

Peter crushed the heels of his palms against his eyes until bright colors flared. He gulped and gulped and rocked against his perch until the heat started to leech away from his cheeks once more. He sniffed and lifted his head; noting how the lights below had a halo from his compromised vision. He scrubbed the wet from his lashes and blinked until everything cleared.

Leaning back against a thick beam he let his attention drift – picking out the far off shape of one, particular, building; unique among its neighbors. From this distance he could almost pretend...

A somewhat closer sound pulled his eyes back to his immediate surroundings. Raised voices – then a sharp report from a gun. Peter snatched his mask from the place where he'd tossed it. Dragging the dark fabric over his eyes, he squinted down towards the direction of the shouts. He missed the greeting that used to come with the motion. He hadn't activated Karen since that day... he just couldn't...

Silently dropping down the side of the building, avoiding the use of his webs, Peter dropped to the pavement and crouched – keeping to the shadows. The gunshot had chased off most of the group involved in the fight. There were still three people left behind, however. One of them was on the ground holding his leg. There was another guy beside him on a phone; probably calling for help. The third person looked like a bystander. She was also on her phone. Basically it looked like they had things covered. Sighing, Peter jumped and caught the wall with his fingers; slipping out of sight and feeling the last of his concern leave him at the sound of an ambulance approaching.

He worked his way back through Queens; only using his webs twice when he didn't have any other options. Nobody saw him. He'd promised May he'd stay with her at Happy's apartment for the rest of the week. It just... it felt weird. He was still trying to wrap his head around it. Well... not just that.

His destination was just across the street. Late enough that the building he braced his shoulders against was dark, he gave the sidewalk a quick back and forth before darting towards the back of the shop. Closed for the night but he had an in with the owner. A double rap on the back door and he waited; still keeping eyes and ears open. But the only sounds were from the traffic. The door opened, and Mr. Delmar gave him a look. That same look.

“How you holding up, kid? You look too skinny these days.”

Peter shrugged, accepting the fragrant bag held out to him. “I'm okay. Thanks for the sandwich. Here, I...” He dug into one of the pockets lining the suit but Mr. Delmar shook his head – hand flat towards him.

“Hey; on the house, right? I told you before, kid, your money's no good here. Just... take care of yourself, alright?”

Peter swallowed but pushed the bills back into his pocket; nodding. “I will. I promise.” He knelt to scratch Murph on the head as the fluffy cat coiled around his owner's legs. “You look after this old guy, okay?” A purring mew in response and Peter gave a final pat before straightening. “Thanks... for the sandwich and... everything...”

The older man nodded. “Anytime you need anything, kid...”

Peter pushed a smile across his lips. “I will. Thanks.” He didn't look back as he slunk away.

He didn't open the bag until he was back on his chosen perch; watching the last of the evening turn purple on the horizon as he dug out the first of two sandwiches and a can of strawberry soda. He wolfed down the food – noting, only then, the burn that hunger had left behind. Stuffing the trash back into the bag, he crushed it into a ball before dragging his heels to the open cavity that was meant to one day hold an elevator. A dead dream with a hole left behind.

Leaning forward, he hooked fingers on the straps of his backpack – spraying the webbing with release fluid and slinging the bag across his shoulders.

The trip to Happy's place took around twenty minutes by web. Employing somewhat more conservative travel, Peter reached the rooftop in about an hour. He changed clothes before creeping his way down to the window outside of the spare room. It was unlocked. It was always unlocked. He spread one hand over the pane and slid it up easily. Out of habit he crawled along the ceiling; lowering himself without a sound and listening at the crack of the door. The television was on but there was no talking. It smelled like pasta and his stomach rumbled; as though he hadn't eaten two #5's a little over an hour ago. His phone vibrated. Crossing back to close the window, he checked the screen. So MJ and Ned had been texting him all evening. The last appeared to be a joint effort including a close up pic of their lips making an exaggerated frown. He laughed; he couldn't help it, and sent off a long-ish reply and a gif of a dancing pickle.

“Peter?”

He turned as May rapped on the door frame. She looked... really beautiful. Tired and worried but...

“Hey.” He dropped his phone to the polished end table alongside the bed (no scratches, no ink stains, no wall mounted lamp with the chipped metal shade). “Sorry I... I was...” He fiddled with the hem of his tee. He didn't know how to finish that so he just shrugged.

May approached until her arms could go around him. She didn't say anything; just hugged him and he closed his eyes and breathed in her hair. He didn't know the shampoo she'd used – it wasn't like the kind she usually bought. He finally breathed out and stepped back. “You guys cook?”

May brushed two fingers through his bangs. “Happy made chicken primavera. You hungry? I saved you some in case...”

Peter nodded and followed his aunt from the room. The television was turned down but he pretended that it wasn't because Happy was listening from the other room. The kitchen was still a bizarre space, to him. Open and with lots of counter space and shiny appliances and various pieces of equipment he wasn't totally certain what they did. He hadn't even known Happy liked to cook until the first time May and he had been invited over for dinner. Happy had made grilled salmon.

The leftover pasta was in a pyrex container that Peter could heat in the microwave. He grabbed one of the fancy bottles of sparkling cider from the fridge – trying to beat down the uneasiness of eating someone else's food no matter how often Happy had told him he could have whatever he wanted.

He ate while leaning against the counter and cleaned up afterwards; putting his used dishes in the washer. He took his cider with him to the large living room where May and Happy were sitting on the couch and watching some sorta old musical or something. Peter shifted his feet and had the urgent rush to scurry back to his borrowed bedroom. Happy smiled at him and pointed towards the nearby overstuffed chair. “Wanna join? Your aunt picked this out. She swears it's good.”

May patted Happy on the knee. "It is good when you actually pay attention.”

Snorting, Happy slouched down. “I would if they'd stop singing...”

Dropping into the chair, Peter tried not to sink too far into the comfortable softness. “Isn't that the whole point of a musical?”

Happy pointed at him though Peter wasn't entirely certain what the gesture was supposed to mean. He just smiled in response and earned a smirk back. Belly, for once, a bit over full, Peter set his mostly finished bottle of cider on a magazine (Happy wasn't a big coaster guy) and finally let himself go limp in the way too comfortable chair.

It was some black time, later, when May was rubbing her fingers against his scalp.

“Hey, sweetie... how about you head to bed, okay?” Peter snuffled – wincing as he wrestled to unwind himself from the awkward slump draped over the arm of the chair. It had been a hard lesson, learning that super healing didn't mean he couldn't get a kink in his neck from sleeping like a pretzel.

It was a weaving wander back to the spare room. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned hard enough to crack the tendons in his jaw. “Ow.”

May's hand was a warm span against his back as he slid his feet through the door and towards the queen sized bed. Part of him sorta hated that it was so much more comfortable than the twin back at the old... at the other apartment. But most of him was just glad to flop onto the thick mattress and spread out.

May started to leave but Peter's fingers had caught at her hem. He felt a little silly and small but...

He didn't say anything as she sat back down. He watched her as her fingers found his scalp and rubbed at the small hairs near his temple.

“I've missed you. I know you want to handle this your own way but... you know, there are people who can help you. And we can take care of ourselves, too, you know? But what you're doing; staying away night after night...”

Peter turned his head; eyes landing on the framed poster of the New York skyline taking up much of the far wall. May didn't chastise him further; though he was pretty sure he'd earned more. His fingers dug and pulled at the edge of the comforter that she'd pulled over his shoulders. Heat and cold rushed across his scalp in a familiar tension and he squeezed his eyes; battling the tight clench that worked through his throat and into his belly. He knew hope was lost when his breaths stuttered and his eyes got hot behind his lids.

May didn't ask him what was wrong; not when he turned towards his pillow in a hopeless attempt to stop up the sounds he couldn't prevent. She just brushed at his hair and stayed by his side.

And eventually... eventually... he fell asleep.

҉

May's hand continued to move – her fingers gliding through curls that were desperately in need of a trim. She sat there, every day. Same spot; often enough that she was surprised the mattress hadn't shaped itself to fit her frame.

The figure that stood alongside her was silent; also watching the boy.

“He always hated his curls; at least when he was younger. The first time he ever let his hair grow out was when he was eleven. Glory Grant had moved into the apartment across from ours. Glory Grant was sixteen, wore silk flowers in her braids, and loved curly hair. Of course he was smitten.” She grinned; her fingers coming to rest on Peter's scalp. “Now, of course, he likes to slick it back with product. One guess as to where he got that idea.”

Her companion finally crouched as well; sitting on the opposite side of the bed and letting his hand rest on Peter's shoulder. “What can I say? Kid's got good taste.” Tony couldn't manage a smile, though, his face appearing sallow in the blue lights of the monitor.

May pulled her glasses from her nose and let them dangle from two fingers while the heel of her hand pushed against her left eye. Another headache. Been having them, on and off, ever since she'd come back; standing over a cold stove with a moldy pan of pasta before her. It was only later that she'd thanked every entity in the book that she'd turned the oven off prior to the Snap. She'd heard some stories...

“Will you be here? Tomorrow?” If... always if... The un-worded hope. That maybe it would help. Maybe it would make a difference... if...

“Yeah. Wouldn't miss it.” Tony squeezed the small shoulder under his fingers. And then he stood; tipping his chin towards May. “You coming over, Saturday? Happy's cooking. Some sorta large... meat... thing.”

May smiled and shrugged. “Can I let you know? After tomorrow?” If...

Tony nodded. “Yeah, you bet. Just so you know, you're taking home half of the leftovers, either way.”

He stopped, on his way back out – one hand coming down in a gentle touch on her shoulder. “Hey... we'll get this figured out.”

May looked up – into darkened brown eyes – red-rimmed and showing every hour, every day, that he hadn't slept in the past three months. She knew, far too well, what that felt like. And whatever the whispers tried to say, in the back of her mind, she smiled at him. This room was only for hope. “I know.” Her attention turned back to Peter – fingers tracing along his hairline – rubbing at his temples where the fine hairs curled against his scalp. “Come home, Peter.”

She didn't watch Tony leave. She would stay there, with Peter, as she had every night in the three months since they'd woken back to life, only to find her nephew hadn't quite made it back. He'd been in that room ever since.

“Come home, baby. We're all waiting for you.”


	2. The Infernal Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanos's final defeat is revealed.
> 
> They are battered, bruised, and weary but it was worth the cost... wasn't it?
> 
> And Tony brings in an old friend to help. But what they find is far more daunting than they can imagine. What are they supposed to do now?

**3 Months Earlier**

For a guy who'd been slowly starving to death, Tony had stayed surprisingly healthy during those 22 days floating along in that tin can like Major Tom. It really wasn't until after they'd been returned to Earth, had that long-time-coming “chat” with Steve, and collapsed like wet cardboard that he became intimately acquainted with illness. It had started with a rough cough. Well, if he really wanted to toy with honesty, the cough had more or less started on the ship a few days before Rainbow Brite had somehow met them at the intersection of “Somewhere” and “In the Asscrack of”.

Antibiotics. The good stuff. Food... was complicated. Starving, God, like, literally. Starving. Not “really hungry after forgetting meals for 16 hours because he'd suddenly cracked open the secrets of nanotech.” He could see ribs. Not the soft indentations overlapped by muscle but honest to God ribs – tight enough beneath his skin that he'd half expected them to slice through. But actually eating; trying... to eat...

So apparently a side effect of pneumonia was nausea and vomiting. So, feeding tube. Even after that stint of kidnapping in Afghanistan with the complication of malnutrition he hadn't needed a feeding tube. Tony had found he could be absolutely certain, in a world that never provided absolutes, that he had hated his feeding tube.

It had taken over two weeks to work up to semi-solid food. It had taken another week to finally shake the cough. It was a full three months before he could look down at himself and see abdominal muscles instead of a sunken belly. Three days after that, they'd gone after Thanos.

Three months had meant still fragile reconstruction – not just of Tony's strength and endurance but of other things, more fragile, even, than that. Of friendships and trust and, most of all, hope. Because hope had been in short shrift since watching a boy turn to ash in his arms. There was so much of himself that didn't want hope. Easier to simply want revenge. He could build something around vengeance.

So he'd found himself in a spaceship, again.

He'd sorta blanked that part out some point after leaving the atmosphere. He only remembered Nat asking if he was alright before... yeah, nothing.

He hadn't thrown up. That was the important take away from all of it.

The purple nightmare that had lived in his chest far longer than three months had seemed so... diminished... sitting in that hut overlooking golden fields. He'd smiled at them as though welcoming neighbors popping by for lemonade and fresh baked sugar cookies. And Tony had felt a cold stone drop through his gut at the soft greeting sent his way.

The mad titan had still worn the gauntlet.

“It is my charge; to be the Keeper of the Stones. I was willing to destroy them... to assure the continuance of the universe on that path I'd set and to keep them out of the hands of those who would abuse their power. However, I was... prevented. So now I will guard them, instead, and...”

Tony hadn't waited for him to complete his monologue. Thankfully nobody else had been willing to bathe in his speech, either, so backup backed him up.

It hadn't been like Titan. No Strange, no Peter, no Guardians, other than Meeko. But the fight hadn't been about stopping fate, this time. It had been something far more wrenching. Something with which Tony had intimate familiarity. Desperation.

The play by play hadn't mattered, in hindsight. They'd been bloodied. They'd been broken. They'd found themselves face to face with shadows with no substance; swinging at something that wasn't there only to take a blow to the back. He'd remembered watching Harry Potter with the kid – left on the TV in the lab – just background while they'd fiddled with things far more interesting. But he'd remembered that one scene; battling evil wizards and the way they flew on smoke and trails of flashing light. It had been like that, a bit.

Thor hadn't been taken in. In hindsight it had made sense, of course – a lifetime of his brother pulling his shit had been pretty decent training, really.

His axe hadn't missed, that time.

It had been oddly anticlimactic.

The illusions had vanished when Thanos's head had impacted the ground. It was around that time they'd had another... disagreement. Steve, Rocket, Thor, and Hawkeye had been on the side of acting immediately to bring back the Lost. Tony, Nat, and Bruce had insisted that they needed to study the stones and do things cautiously. It hadn't come to blows (Okay, Tony had been primed to throw punches since he'd regained the strength to lift his own arms) but they'd been to the point of invading personal bubbles. Until Nebula, silent during their verbal spar, had spoken.

“Step back.”

One would think that past history would have imparted a rather crucial lesson. Don't take your eyes off the gauntlet. They'd taken their eyes off the gauntlet. Nebula had slipped her hand inside the oversized oven mitt; Backing off when none of them had so much as shifted a heel to step away. In fact, Tony had taken a step forward... And she'd looked at him and... smiled. “I win.”

It wasn't the Snap that Tony had remembered from that moment. It was the aftermath; racing to kneel beside Nebula whose left arm had become twisted and charred – the dark blue fluid dripping steadily from the countless fissures impossible to identify as either blood or some sort of nutritional suspension. He'd done what he could to seal the wounds in any event.

“Stay with us, sweetheart.”

He and Rocket had been feverishly working on the failing systems keeping her alive; his body trembling but his hands rock steady. How long they worked he didn't know. They kept their heads down and saw nothing else. And then a pair of scarred fingers had joined him at her skull.

“We need to get her to your facility, Stark. This is beyond any conventional medicine.”

He'd tipped up his chin... and looked into the crystal pale eyes of Stephen Strange.

They hadn't needed the ship. The restored Guardians stepping through the still whirling porthole had only hung around long enough for Nebula to turn their way – stuttering a word that had stiffened Quill's spine and glazed his eyes with something wild. “V-Vormir.”

They had gone – racing to the distant ship with Rocket darting in their wake; pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder. “You keep her alive!”

And then they were gone.

It was crazy how hyper focus lifted away the impediments of any other thoughts. No matter how important, crucial, urgent... Not as much as the dying woman in his arms as he'd walked through the ring of gold and into the medical wing of the compound. A moment to lie her on a gurney and she'd been raced to the surgery bay. Cho had been restored to life just in time to head up the team and who better, really, given her knowledge of both biological and synthetic life.

Tony had wrapped a hand in Stephen's cloak before the doctor could perform his own vanishing act. Only one thought had remained; consistent and of driving import since they'd pinpointed Thanos's location.

“Peter.”

Tony kept very little of the walk towards the hospital wing in his memory. He'd stood in the room, some feet back from the bed, and watched the medical team working on the boy. Peter had been relieved of his Iron Spider suit; Tony himself providing the instructions for withdrawing the nano tech back into its housing. The young man it revealed had appeared so... fragile. Though he'd been there for over an hour it wasn't until that moment that the doctors could begin assessing his condition.

“We found him like that, when we awoke on Titan. I brought him here before meeting you on the planet.”

Strange had spoken but Tony hadn't quite tracked that – not until that shivering hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed enough to get him to turn his head.

Voice far softer than before, the sorcerer had led him several steps from the activity until they were more or less in a private corner. “Tony, I need to go. We may have stopped Thanos but we remain vulnerable to other powerful forces so long as the stones are together in one location.”

The stones – God, he'd actually forgotten all about them. Forgotten a lot of things, actually; only then realizing he needed to call Pepper. “So what's your plan, Doc?” Tony's eyes were on the distant room as he spoke.

“Scatter them; to locations only I will know about and seal them with enough incantations as to make them nigh impossible to break.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow. “Nigh impossible?”

Stephen looked back steadily. “Nothing is absolute. However it would take an exceptional individual of unimaginable power to break those seals and that's if they could even find all the stones.”

“An individual of unimaginable power. Not arrogant at all.” Arms crossed Tony leaned against the wall – suddenly lightheaded with exhaustion.

Smiling, Stephen slid an unusual double ring over two fingers. “It's not arrogance when it's true.”

Snorting, Tony smirked as the wizard made his portal and stepped through. “I think that's my line.”

҉

**Kamar Taj – Present Day 2019**

  
The last of the other Masters vanished through the aperture leading to the Hong Kong Sanctum. Though a Sorcerer Supreme had yet to be appointed they still gathered, at Stephen's behest, to discuss the stirrings across the multiverse. Wong stood before the Orb of Agamotto; brow furrowed at the haze of darkness that still flit across its surface; too nebulous to pinpoint either its source or the threat it may pose. None of the remaining Masters had been any the wiser to its import and they were left with the recourse to essentially sit back and monitor from afar. Though, as Stephen had argued; monitor what, exactly? The shadows danced across the globe – erupting like sun spots only to fade into nothing – appearing seconds later hundreds – thousands of kilometers away. There was no pattern – no location that was visited regularly enough to send a sorcerer to observe the cause of the disturbances. However, Stephen's suggestion as to the cause had been met with some amount of skepticism. It was his Residency all over again. Whatever his talents and intelligence, the old guard was unwilling to simply accept his thoughts at face value. It required discussion; meditation; research into ancient tomes hour by day by week...

“Trust me, Stephen, they do not lightly dismiss you. Your argument will be taken into account.” Wong had turned from the Orb to study his friend. Stephen paced – the cloak lifting up in his wake and stirring on its own breeze.

“While they're debating this the disturbances will continue to spread.” Frustrated, he lifted his hands only to let them drop back at his sides. “You said it yourself, Wong; you haven't seen anything like this before, save once. When Thanos used the gauntlet to destroy half of all life.”

Wong swallowed; not replying. They hadn't spoken, much, of that terrible moment. The chaos of such massive loss had not merely affected life, on a universal scale, but the balance of existence through the entire multiverse. The ripples had been akin to inter-dimensional tsunami waves. In some places doorways were wedged open were in others, passages had been sealed. Even now, with life, essentially, restored – the sorcerers were overburdened with the task of repairing the damage left by Thanos's genocide.

Stephen sighed and wrapped his arms across his chest; tucking his fingers beneath his elbows. “The only thing we know of, that could cause disruptions on the scale, are the infinity stones.”

“Which you've hidden; save for the time stone, which is once more under the stewardship of the Sanctum, and the soul stone, which vanished and, presumably, was restored to Vormir.” Wong closed down the Orb before gesturing towards the remaining doorway leading to the New York Sanctum. Stephen walked ahead and they both passed through the liquid pool that gave them passage home. Wong didn't speak again until they'd entered the library; the older man sinking down into his seat while Stephen resumed pacing through the smaller space. “The remaining stones are scattered across the multiverse. Their powers had been made dormant and they are sealed with incantations to prevent their activation; whether by purpose or accident. So...” he leaned forward over his folded arms, “how can they be causing these disturbances, now?”

Stephen shook his head; finally looking up to meet the eyes of his friend. “I don't know.”

҉

**Avenger's Compound**

He'd contacted her 3 days ago and she wanted... oh, she'd wanted so badly to ignore it. The mere sight of his name on her phone was terrifying. So many bad dreams. But stronger, as always, was the pulsing need to act. Particularly once she'd heard the message. And she was so tired of being afraid.

Wanda stepped from the car and shrugged her jacket close around her throat. It was early, still, and the mist over the grounds carried a chill that froze the tip of her nose and snapped with the scent of Fall. The figure, at her back, moved alongside her as an arm slid around her waist.

“Are you alright? You appear... well, I'm uncertain how you appear. I think... contemplative?”

Wanda smiled up at the scrunched befuddlement on Vision's face. “Contemplative, yes. I think that is a good word. Come...” Taking his hand, she tugged him towards the building. “I would rather Stark not meet us out here. It is cold and he talks too long.”

The first person to greet the two of them, once they'd passed through security and had endured the only _somewhat_ invasive scans, was Clint; a half eaten slice of pizza in hand and his jacket only half on as he jogged towards the doors.

“Hey; sorry, on my way out or I'd talk longer. How're you doing?” In a one armed hug, he pulled Wanda against him before turning to Vision with his fist extended. The other being stared; blinking at the appendage before Clint rolled his eyes. “God, Tony hasn't taught you how to fist bump yet?”

Comprehension lifted the befuddlement and Vision smiled. “Ah, of course!” Lifting his own fist in return, he stiffly returned the gesture while Clint grinned. Then, slapping Vision on the back as he shifted his pizza to the other hand and shrugged on his jacket, Clint continued on his way. “I'll be in town for a couple more days. We should get together for dinner someplace. There's a great bowling alley in the East Village. I'll call ya!”

Vision's forehead crinkled as Clint disappeared through the doors. “Are bowling alleys known for their cuisine?”

Wanda shrugged with a small head shake. “Perhaps they are as far as Clint is concerned.” There was nobody else in the lobby and no indication that there would be so they continued on towards the medical wing.

They finally located Tony in one of the smaller rooms down the hallway from the open surgical ward. Wanda was surprised to see Bruce there, as well, along with a woman she didn't recognize. Hanging back in the doorway, Vision a few steps behind her, Wanda didn't try to approach until Tony stood and fidgeted his fingers at his sides; an unexpected hesitance that Wanda was unaccustomed to. It was actually the woman who rose to meet them at the door; her smile warm.

“Hi, Tony told me you were coming and said you might be able to help? I'm May. May Parker I'm Peter's aunt.” The start of a handshake quickly changed to a brief hug and Wanda felt utterly out of her depth at the welcome. She glanced at Vision but he appeared equally nonplussed.

“I'm Wanda and this is Vis. Vision.” A hand lifted towards the man and he gave a small bow at the waist. May's eyebrows lifted; likely at the unusual name given that Vision had taken to appearing human; saving his true appearance for times of battle.

“Gosh, you'd think I'd be used to, ah, unique names with this crowd.”

Vision folded his hands before him. “I am an android.”

May blinked, swallowed, and nodded. “Sure, okay, sure...”

“Look, I love a meet and greet as much as anyone but maybe we could revisit the handshakes once we find out whether or not this is actually going to work?” Clearly done with being ignored, Tony returned attention back to the bed they'd all been gathered around. Not appearing the least put off by Tony's curt tone, May remained before Wanda; her face crumpling just a bit at the edges.

“You can read minds? You can find out if he... if he...?” Helplessly, she twisted her fingers and swallowed. Wanda nodded.

“In a manner of speaking. I am able to observe thoughts and sense emotions.” Which was far from the full truth but Wanda had never been comfortable sharing the full breadth of her abilities. They tended to terrify people. At times, they terrified her, as well.

Bruce had hung back during their conversation but as they approached the bed, he held out his hand; giving them both a soft handshake that felt as though he was overcompensating with gentleness given the war within himself.

“Wanda, Vision. I've removed the IVs and monitoring devices as a precaution. I really don't know how your... uh... abilities will interact with the equipment so better safe than sorry. Is there anything else you need? A chair or...?”

“I can sit on the edge of the bed.” Eyes only on the boy, Wanda no longer took note of the other people in the room. Peter lie on top of the bedding; dressed in soft sweat pants and a t-shirt with what appeared to be talking cartoon rocks. His face was slack; eyes shut as though asleep and only moments from waking. Other than his breaths, though, there was no other movement. No flick of his eyes beneath his lids, no twitch of fingers, no jerk of his head. Wanda settled herself down on his right side and lifted her hands to his temples; quirking her fingers and relaxing the hold on her abilities.

A thread of crimson seeped from her hands; leaving a warm glow on Peter's face like a false blush.

She felt her consciousness _shift_...

There was... a wall... of sorts. Her eyes closed, she dipped her head; brow pinching as she pushed a little more.

It was like the mental equivalent to pressing against rubber or some sort of membrane. There was an odd give to her efforts but she couldn't quite break through.

Redoubling her efforts she released a bit more of her magic. And still more; soon spreading the red glow to encase Peter's entire head in light. Wanda had never encountered such resistance from anyone. A truly disciplined mind could likely repel her but there would always be some sign of that active effort. This was... more like finding a locked house with no indication that anyone was even inside.

Crooking her fingers severely, Wanda unleashed her full powers – distantly aware of alarmed voices at her back but keeping her focus on reaching the child – if that were even possible anymore.

The breach, when it came, was like a wormhole opening beneath her feet and yanking her down. Orange light burst beneath her eyelids and she may have screamed...

And then she blinked.

She was standing on a rooftop overlooking a jumble of brownstones, generic apartment buildings, and several businesses that appeared closed for the night. Far in the distance she could make out the brightness of Midtown Manhattan and the Empire State building near Stark Tower.

There was a scent of spiced meat and the shift of rubber soled shoes against pea gravel. Some compulsion made her turn; drawn to something bright in the corner of her eyes...

And she found herself staring at a detailed portrait of Tony Stark; the base of the painting a mass of melted candles and dried flowers. It was a memorial; numbers just beneath the figure... Her lungs sucked at vanishing air and she swore she could almost hear her bobeshi exclaiming in her ears, _“Oh vez mear!”_

A shuffle drew her attention back to the right. She tore herself away from the portrait only to take in a glimpse of wild blown curls, soft eyes, and a red and black suit...

“ _ **GET OUT!”**_

The scream was a physical blow to her chest and Wanda gasped, helpless as she was violently thrown backwards...

… and slammed, hard, into the wall next to Peter's bed.

Her ears throbbed with muffled sound and she panted as shapes moved around her. Someone took her wrist in a light grip while another knelt before her and seemed to be speaking.

“Wanda!”

She flinched; blinking rapidly as her eyes cleared... and saw Vision in her line of sight. He tilted his head as she finally focused on him.

“Are you alright?”

She shook her head; though she wasn't, herself, certain if it was in answer or shock. She tasted salt and lifted a hand to brush it across her lips; pulling back her fingers to see the stain of red on the tips.

“Your nose is bleeding.” Bruce, the other person in her space, sighed as he released her wrist and passed her a tissue, which she pressed to her nose.

“Your pulse is extremely high. Is that normal when you... uh... do what you do?” Bruce winced at the inaccurate question even as he rocked back on his heels.

Ignoring his question as well as Vision's worry, she pushed both men from her personal space and braced against the wall to stand; body aching like she'd been beaten with a club. She turned towards May and Tony; who both stared at her, agonized.

“He is alive. I was able to see him; though only for a moment.”

May pressed both hands over her lips before moving to Peter's bed and sitting at his side; snuffling as she brushed the curls from his forehead.

Leaving the woman to tend her nephew, Wanda brushed away Vision's steadying hand and approached Tony; who still hadn't spoken but rather, looked towards the bed and held his jaw tight.

“Tony...” She waited until shadowed eyes lifted to her, “there was something else, that I saw. I am uncertain what it meant; why it was there, but...”

Heaving a breath, Tony shook off his mood and transformed into the commanding presence that always made her feel like a small child caught stealing rugelach from the cooling rack. “Don't leave me hanging, Maximoff. I love a good spoiler. Lay it on me.” Whatever the tone of his words, his face held that stern tension and Wanda swallowed her anxiety to respond.

“There was an image, on a wall; somewhere near Manhattan. It was your portrait.” She licked her lips; tasting salt again. “It was a memorial – _your_ – memorial. And, there was also a date...” She looked back steadily; seeing the barely hidden unease in Tony's eyes.

“It read... October 17th,” the breath left her lungs in a long exhale, “2023.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I sure didn't want to take so long to post an update! But I knew this story was gonna be a beast to assemble and I'm so grateful for those who are still here to join us on the ride! I will update again as soon as I can! Whether or not you celebrate Thanksgiving, I wish all of you a blessed week!!
> 
> "bobeshi: - affectionate term for "grandmother"  
> “Oh vez mear!” - Yiddish phrase that translates as "Oh, woe is me"  
> rugelach - a Jewish pastry dish with raisins, walnuts, and sometimes chocolate.


	3. The Eternal Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2023\. The world is on its head but people get up, dust off their knees, and exist. This is reality. This is life, going forward.
> 
> But everything just feels so... wrong.
> 
> In 2019, a different reality has taken shape. Tony Stark is alive. But not everything lost was returned. But is there a way, still, to get it all back?
> 
> In another world, though, the danger begins to mount. And an old enemy climbs out of the eternal night - ready to bring forth hell.

҉

**Queens, New York - 2024**

Peter took forever to even remember what he was doing. The reverberation of a woman's scream so clear, so present that he stumbled to the edge of the roof to try to pinpoint a location – squinting until he couldn't stand it any longer. _Not real. Not real not real..._

He'd had migraines before; plenty of times. They had been kind of a normal thing when he was a little kid but, still, nothing like this! A surge of whiteout pain dropped him to his knees on the rooftop of the small apartment complex where he'd stopped for a breather. He was pretty sure he was going to puke by the time the agony settled into his temples; throbbing with his heartbeat and leaving him sweaty and shaking. Mask pulled from his head his curls stuck up wild – though he didn't bother attempting to tame them. He was too busy trying to stop the heaving gasps as he finally let himself fall on his butt – legs stretched out before him. Rubbing his eyes, he turned his face to the side – spitting out the slight taste of acid. And he froze.

It was habit; the only explanation as to why he'd chosen this fucking rooftop, of the literally hundreds of thousands of options, to take a break. Even as he remembered why he shouldn't have he knew why he had. Of all the buildings in the immediate area, this was the tallest. It offered the clearest view of Manhattan... specifically the iconic tower rising towards the clouds. His chest felt like lead and Peter wiped at his eyes again.

The headache was seeping back enough that he no longer felt the nauseating tilt of vertigo when he stood – dusting off his backside with a careless swipe. He listened, for the scream again, but nothing came of it. He did, though, pick up on the distant sound of a car alarm. Shooting a web, he left his rooftop behind and swung between two burned out businesses – long ago abandoned and boarded up.

Three minutes and he was there. His first thought was to wonder what idiot would park a cherry red convertible in this neighborhood. Of course it was going to get stolen. Granted, Peter didn't have the best track record when it came to alleged car theft – more than once webbing someone to their own vehicle. And, other than the totally retro mohawk, it wasn't as if the guy, below, had done anything obviously crimina...

Okay, busting out the side window with a crowbar was still, technically, illegal.

“Hey, need a hand? I know a guy with a tire iron – maybe you two would wanna hang out?”

Three hours later, Peter groaned as he crawled through the window and didn't bother stripping his suit before dropping on the bed. He wouldn't mind sleeping for the next month. Of course, the buzz of his phone assured that unconsciousness would have to wait. Not bothering to lift his face from his pillow, he wriggled his hand into the covert pouch within the inner lining of his suit and used two fingers to pluck free his phone. Letting the mobile flop on the mattress next to his face, Peter turned his head just enough to blearily take in the screen.

**Chair-Man**

_where u at? weren't u coming over 2nite?_

Peter groaned and thumped his face in his pillow. He forgot. Dammit... Another groan as he forced himself to sit up, legs crossed on the mattress, he grabbed the phone and sent off a rapid reply.

**Peter-Man**

_sry dude forgot b there in 5?_

**Chair-Man**

_u still at happys? bring those $$ wasabi chips :p_

Smirking, Peter sent off another response before uncurling and pressing his hands into his lower back. Man; if he felt this bad at 16 he'd be in a wheelchair by the time he was Mr. Stark's ag...

He slammed the bunker door on the rest of that thought and braced his hands on his knees. Hearing the flush of a toilet he paused; listening until he heard the lighter shuffle of May's slippered feet as she headed for the kitchen.

Low key hunger gnawing at him from the inside out, Peter quickly shucked his suit, leaving it in a trailing spread on the floor, before tugging on the closest set of clothes; a ratty pair of jeans and a stained tee that had nearly made it to the empty hamper before he'd thwarted their efforts.

Bottles clinked as the fridge door was tugged open and May was standing in the cool air misting out around her body as she gazed over the options. Making certain to scuff his feet, having terrified his aunt about a hundred times too many because of his “kitten soft tread”, Peter offered a somewhat folded smile when she glanced back over her shoulder.

“You were out kinda late tonight.” A question, of course, no matter how much it sounded like a statement.

Peter leaned himself over the marble topped island and rubbed his thumb along the smooth veining. “Yeah, um... there was, like, more robberies than usual.” Letting his attention slide left he tucked his lower lip beneath his incisors while hoping May would go back to her snack hunt.

The fridge door made another rattle as it shut with the soft clup of suction. May had turned and her gaze alone was enough to pull him back to facing her.

“You know, this is, like, the third night in a row.” Her shoulders lifted a little beneath her pink robe.

Peter ducked his head and rubbed a little harder on the marble surface. “Yeah, well, the police don't patrol neighborhoods like the used to. A lot of people need help...” Without a clear idea how to complete that thought he let it trail off to nothing. Neither one of them bothered to mention why the police presence was so reduced. It had sorta become an unspoken agreement that they didn't talk about... _IT_... the Snap, the Dusting, the Blip, or whatever else people came up with to try to make it seem like no big deal. Like everything was just supposed to pick up and go back to normal. That was the whole reason for that trip, after all. Just normal teenagers going on a normal European vacation with normal activities and normal fun... But it hadn't been. Because weird elemental monsters that weren't and a dimension traveling Mysterio who wasn't and terror and blood and death and nightmares and now everyone knew who he was and he couldn't be HIM anymore...

And he didn't really know what he was supposed to be if he wasn't him and...

And that was a lot to unpack when he'd really just wanted a sandwich.

But, see, that was why May was the most awesome aunt in the universe cause, like, she had a mind-reading ability that could rival his... _tingle_... any day of the week.

“Hungry?” May turned back to the fridge – the door having closed only partway, “I think I spotted some olive loaf behind the milk.”

Peter scrunched his nose in disgust as his aunt laughed and dug out several kinds of salami, cheese, banana peppers, horseradish, and two artisan root beers. Peter had come to learn that if something was labeled as artisan, Happy would almost always buy it. He was still trying to work out how root beer qualified as artisan, though.

Pulling out a loaf of Italian from the box, Peter utilized some halfway decent knife skills to slice the bread into, mostly, even portions and even managed to not cut himself... more than once.

Minutes later, with Peter sucking on the nicked digit tucked in his mouth, the two of them sat at the counter on tall stools and ate. May was a talker during meal times. Peter was too, usually, though these days he tended to vaguely listen while his aunt updated him on her promotion at work, the new deli opening up in Glendale, and the color of boxers she'd bought for Happy.

Peter chewed; eyes gazing somewhere towards the framed painting of a tall black stripe... _weird..._ when he abruptly stilled and wrinkled his nose. “Wait, what? Gross!”

May chuckled. “Ah... there you are.”

Wishing spider powers extended to erasing mental images, Peter pushed aside the remnants of his meal while desperately attempting to imagine literally anything other than Happy in purple boxers covered in smiley emojis. He coughed around a mouthful of bubbling soda before wiping his lips and resting the bottle back on the coaster their host insisted Peter use. May always got a pass because apparently she wasn't a “walking disaster”.

“Yeah, sorry I've just... uh... just been thinking about... stuff...”

May's fingers slid the hair back from his forehead; such a familiar and soothing gesture that he nearly leaned into the touch.

“Stuff, huh? Any of that _stuff_ have to do with a young woman who's been curiously absent the past few weeks?” Her eyebrows lifted and Peter was honestly baffled for all of four seconds while he processed through the women he knew until the short circuiting mental wires rerouted the current.

“Wait – MJ?”

His aunt was highly skilled in the “well, duh” face and it wasn't the first time that Peter had been subjected to that particular expression. He scratched his forearm while simultaneously shrugging and kicking one foot against the bottom rungs of the high stool he was perched on.

“I mean... I've talked to her; texted I mean. And Ned. Both of them.” His mouth worked a bit more, as if it hadn't realized he'd stopped manufacturing words. He offered another shrug to make up the inventory. May, clearly unsatisfied with the delivery, lowered her chin in order to send an unimpeded gaze over the top of her glasses.

“Okay, word of experience here, kid, a woman is never impressed with a man who resorts to texting in lieu of a phone call.”

Peter smirked, “They had texting in the 80s?”

Wrinkling her nose at him, May reached out long fingers and pinched his arm. “Smarty.” Gathering their dishes she took them across the kitchen to the sink; scraping their waste into the trash compactor before stacking the plates in the dish washer. “Hey, Romeo, wanna watch a movie?”

It was that or hiding in his borrowed room while anxiety heaped up like drifts of icy snow around his shoulders. Licking his lips as he really didn't need those seconds to debate, Peter nodded. “Okay but it has to be something from Pixar and not Frozen, Finding Nemo, or The Good Dinosaur.”

May nodded. “Got it!”

Settling on the massive couch that took up most of the wall in the entertainment room, May flipped though the options on Hulu until, by silent agreement, they made a choice. Then, room lights dimming with a touch, they propped their feet up on the extended foot rests as Monsters University started to play.

҉

**Avenger's Compound - 2019**

The hot teacup tightly held between her hands was a soothing reminder to stop rubbing her temples. Wanda tipped her head back against the padded headboard and counted her breaths as the mental firestorm slowly began to abate. Her nosebleed had stopped about fifteen minutes ago and Vision had collected the small supply of blood soaked tissues, disposing of them in the trash, before joining her on the bed. She leaned against him; ear pressed against the unique thrum within. The combination of organic and inorganic form lent itself to something like a heartbeat and yet not. It was like electricity and waves and pulsing blood and she found herself reassuring her soul with its presence. She had thought she would never hear it again.

“I missed you.” She blinked – eyelashes damp. Vis lifted the full mug from her hands and she let him – wrapping her arms around his body and huddling against his warmth.

He rested one hand against the back of her head while the other rubbed her shoulder. “I have not left you.”

Breathing wetly, Wanda shook her head. “But you did. When Thanos...” she choked on the name before swallowing. “He brought you back... only to tear the stone from your head. I... I had to watch you die again...” She rubbed one wrist beneath her nose until Vision placed a fresh tissue in her fingers. She scrubbed her eyes and clenched a fist around the damp wad. “I had failed. You were gone... And I no longer wished...” she gulped again... “when I felt death taking me... I was glad.”

His cheek pressed down on the top of her head. There was a long drag of silence, then. This, too, was familiar and often the result of the intense subjects that arose between them as naturally and frequently as discussions about boy bands and why there was need for so many types of flour for baking. Whether the conversation was light-hearted or deep Vision always walked through it with honest consideration. There were no complications as with other people. There was never judgement for any topic broached – only curiosity and the desire to understand.

“I have studied four-thousand eighty-two hundred religions known to Earth including six-hundred and twenty not formally registered. The defining characteristic shared by all is the existence of an afterlife. Christianity speaks of an immediate transition from death to a rebirth into heaven where one may find all previously deceased family and friends awaiting one's arrival. The Hindu faith believes that the soul can be reincarnated as another being – allowed to exist in a completely different form each time they are reborn. In ancient Egypt it was believed that death was temporary and that one must prepare for the eventual return to life thus the preservation of organs and tissues.” He paused – studied respiration lifting the chest beneath her head. “In none of these faiths, however, did I find a description for my experience. Had I bothered to formulate any standard of belief it would have been the surety that there was no afterlife – that once departed the... engine... which drives life would depart and there would be nothing more. And yet...” his breath stuttered, then, and Wanda sat up to meet his gaze – noting the disquiet on his face.

“Vis?”

He shook his head and produced a smile that was more artificial than he'd ever managed before. “If souls do not exist,” he closed his mouth; pressing tight his lips and blasting a short gust from his nose, “rather, if souls have only finite existence, lost upon the occasion of death, then... how was mine returned? It was not as though time were reversed in which it would merely be a matter of revisiting previous events and changing their outcome but, instead, life was returned where it had been lost. But if there is no soul then how can that be?”

Fingers lifting to his troubled face, Wanda brushed the pads against his cheek – his skin warm beneath her touch.

“When I was a child my grandmother taught us that we have three souls; the Nefesh, the Ruah, and the Neshamah. The first form does not immediately depart but is believed to linger near the body for many days and my grandmother thought that was to allow the recently dead to wish farewell to family who would come to say goodbye. The third form was the soul which would ascend to heaven immediately, to reunite with lost friends and family. The second soul, however, was one which harbored the evil within an individual. It was condemned to torment in the seven tiers of Gehenom. However, even then, it could eventually rejoin the other two parts in paradise unless the soul was truly wicked. Of course my... my brother and I never believed her stories. She would always warn us that if we did not change our ways then all three parts of our soul would suffer the fate of the Ruah and never find their way to heaven.”

Until his knuckle brushed the tear from her face, Wanda had not realized she'd begun to weep. Wiping her other cheek on her shoulder she settled back down on Vision's chest. “There are these... moments... flashes of memory... of a place filled with screaming and horror... and I'm terrified that my grandmother was right. And... and I'm... I wonder if he... if my brother... is there still...” She broke, then, turning her face against him as she sobbed.

His arms held her as she cried – letting the minutes drip past. This, too, he would allow her – in those times when she needed to grieve. He had never attempted to lighten the darkness with humor or ease it with hollow comforts. Emotion was allowed the space to breathe; even when it was difficult. She had never met anyone like him.

Soon, of their own time, the tears slowed enough that she could catch the rest in a tissue and speak without her voice slipping.

“Wherever Peter is, now... my grandmother would call it one of the tiers in Gehenom.” She lifted her face to Vision, who did not look away from her intensity. “I need to go back.”

“Yes. You do.” Both Vision and Wanda startled; caught off guard by the figure in the open doorway. It was a moment, blinking, before Wanda realized who it was who had breached their privacy. And, yet, she felt something just edging into hope at the sight of the man in the heavy robes.

“Doctor Strange.”

҉

**Kathmandu - 2024**

A cultural blend of modern and ancient, Kathmandu after dark had its own life separate from the street sellers, fortune tellers, and shopping tourists. Parts of the city were alive with clubs and celebration – art exhibits and dancing and young people letting loose and loosely dressed beneath the temples and statues of ancient gods.

Closer to the base of the mountains, however, the crowds fell away. Few traversed these narrow paths after sunset – the walk risky with scattered stones and shadows that could hold anything from innocent to nefarious. One such shadow moved along the outer wall of a forgettable and crumbling structure – its shape indistinct with the lack of moonlight. Heavy cloud cover threatened rain but, so far, only a scattering of dry lightening flashed distantly; thunder rolling through the valley. Bypassing the thick wooden door, impenetrable despite its chipped and faded facade, the figure pressed on towards the uneven edge of the wall as it wrapped around the side and gradually dropped off into a chasm of which the base was lost in the darkness. Here, narrow ledges, less than a meter deep, jutted out from the outer wall in keeping with the local architecture. While not meant for anything beyond décor, there was still just enough space to fit one's toes; so long as the shoes were removed first.

It was painful, deadly work – inching along while sweat gathered beneath the palms and toes cramped where they gripped smooth stone. Death called from below with every finger slip – every misplaced foot against an uncertain path.

It was nearly forty minutes, breath heaving from strain, before the figure reached the narrow window barred only with decorative sections of thin metal. They parted like butter beneath the honed blade and egress was met with no challenge. Few wandered the halls as the cloak shadow ducked around pillars and slipped ever deeper – the goal a vast room spilling soft lamplight past the cracked door.

The same blade which had allowed entry found swift lodging in the throat of the young woman tasked with guarding the room's secrets. Not the first whose blood had spilled on those ancient stones. Chains clinked lightly together in cautious exploration – fingers finally lighting upon the item they sought. Prize wrested free and tucked out of sight, the need for caution gave way to the need for haste as a wide ring was slipped over two fingers. Hands whirling rapidly, a portal opened just as shouts came from across the hall. But it was too late – the figure stepping though and onto wet gravel half a world away.

Standing on a rooftop, with the heat of late afternoon sunlight on his head, the figure pulled aside his hood and breathed in the tainted air of the city. The weight of the tome, beneath his robes, brought with it a familiar swell of excitement. This time he would not fail. He would fulfill the pact he had granted by his Dark Master, releasing him from his mindless servitude. In exchange, he would bring forth annihilation, and rain ruin upon all who had defied their fate.

Lifting his face to stare towards the Sanctum, hazy in the distance, Kaecilius bared his teeth in a grin.

“Soon, Strange, it will be your time. You will watch your world fall at your feet just as you feel my blade slip through your belly, knowing damnation has risen to drag you into the lake of fire.”

Clutching the heavy book, gazing a few minutes longer upon the ants far below, the cursed sorcerer finally turned – making for the roof access. There was much to be done, after all, to prepare for the end of the world.


	4. The Gate of the City of Dis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen prepares for a dangerous passage - uncertain of success but driven to do whatever he can.
> 
> Meanwhile, the Peter of that future world goes on with life as it was dealt to him. While his identity as Spider-Man is no longer his to wield he is still the protector of his little corner. 
> 
> As it is, help is on the way. The only question that remains, though...
> 
> ... will it get there in time?

҉

**Avenger's Compound – 2019**

His hands moved across the body of the young man – noting so much more than the skin and muscle and bone. Spirit, too, held an energy. But Peter's was...

Wanda shifted, several steps away, her companion close at her side. “It is odd. He is not here and yet I could feel... something... a sort of... doubling... when I entered his mind.”

Not looking up from his work, Stephen still managed enough frost that Wanda flinched. “You're lucky you didn't fry every synapse in your skull.” His ire didn't last, however, as it rapidly softened into a sigh. “However, it was a noble, if reckless, attempt at a level of magic even seasoned sorcerers would hesitate to employ and certainly not on their own.” He stepped back from Peter, then, and let his eyes travel across the gathering of people crowded in the room.

Tony, fidgeting the entire time, finally loosened the tight fold of his arms to tuck his thumbs in his belt loops – letting his fingers tap patterns at his waist. “So? Not to put any pressure on you, or anything, but you're the doc, Doc. What's the verdict?” Casual delivery ran aground of the stress pinched in the crease of his eyes – the bowstring taut length of his spine.

It was so like his days as a surgeon, delivering news to anxious family and friends, that Stephen found himself falling into old and familiar speech.

“I'll readily admit that I don't have Wanda's abilities for... _interacting_ with the mind. I can sense that Peter's spirit is no longer attached to his body and yet he isn't dead, either.” The confusion on the faces around him added to his own frustration. He felt urged to pace but the closeness of the room and its occupants didn't exactly allow for such movements. He felt the cloak sway, slightly, at his back. “Okay, so as a sorcerer, I am able to leave my body in the form of an astral projection. My aura, or spirit, can leave my body and travel independent of my flesh. However I always remain connected to my body and the only way to sever that connection is through death.” At the rising alarm he raised a hand. “Peter isn't dead. His spirit is still tethered... though it's...” he shook his head. The inability to specify what he'd sensed was beyond vexing.

No surprise that Tony, again, was the first to reply. “Well that's completely unenlightening. So what do we need to do, ring up a priest? Cause I'm fresh out of Hail Mary's.”

Stephen frowned. “This is not something you can fix. Not with your tech and not with any medicine crafted on Earth. The only force which can possibly make any headway, in restoring Peter, is magic.” He crossed his arms. “And that means I need everyone, save for Wanda and Wong, to leave.”

Protest came, not from the large egos clustered together in a space too small to house them, but from a small woman whom Stephen had barely noted standing towards the back.

“Hey, I'm not leaving my kid.” She brushed off Tony's hand and stepped closer – glaring in a way that reminded Stephen, painfully, of Christine. “I don't know anything about magic or mind melds, or whatever it is you do but I can tell you that you don't know a thing about me if you think I'd let him face something like this without me here.”

Stephen lifted an eyebrow while, a few steps back, Tony gestured a hand. “Doctor Stephen Strange, meet May Parker. Peter's aunt.”

Stephen held the gaze currently attempting to fry its way through his left cheekbone. “Ms. Parker, I-”

“Mrs., actually, and I've been around Tony long enough to notice when someone is about to lay on some sorta placating smarm.” Her hand cut the air in half between them with a sharp waggle. “Sorry, buster, but I stopped being impressed by magicians when I was eight and so help me God, you try to kick me out of this room, we'll see how many appendages I can break before you can voodoo me into a frog...” she finally took a breath before following up in a whisper, “God, please don't turn me into a frog, I can't stand flies...”

Dire situation aside, Stephen had to draw casual fingers through his goatee to force down the smile. Tony, on the other hand, was less successful – though he controlled himself before May could spot him.

Bruce, shifting back and forth on his heels, looked on with a nigh permanent wrinkle across his eyebrows. “Is there any danger if, ah, if May were to remain in the room? Any, I don't know... magical backlash?” He looked nearly pained as the word “magical” crossed his lips.

Stephen opened his mouth but it was Wong who answered. “Not as such. We can erect a barrier of protection to ensure that any risk posed will be minimal.” The glare Stephen turned on his friend was absorbed in a bland gaze in return. Sighing, he gestured towards the bed.

“Since I rather need my appendages to help your nephew, Mrs. Parker, would you mind sitting over there? Out of the way?” And then he folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at the remaining group. “As for the rest of you, kindly get the hell out.”

҉

Steve Rogers scrubbed a hand across his forehead – smearing red dirt in a bright streak beneath his sweat matted hair. Though not known for warm summers, that week the temps throughout Sokovia had been unusually high; drifting into the mid-90s. Stripping down to his sleeveless shirt, Steve dropped the grime caked cotton tee near a tall stack of lumber.

Though never a wealthy city, Novi Grad had once boasted one of the most beautiful locations in the country. Very little remained of the original city, now, however.

The sound of construction was nonstop, through the day, yet better than eighty percent of the city remained rubble. Between the pollution of the water supply, and the sheer mass of the rubble, not even Tony's international relief agency could work any faster on reconstruction. As it was, they had been forced to declare the remaining portion of the city a no man's land and current plans were to install a temporary wall to keep people out until decisions could be made whether or not the area was salvageable.

A blue plastic thermos of water moved into his eye line and Steve glanced to the left even as he accepted the container. Natasha, too, was looking out over the city and its miles of desolation. Steve tipped back his head and drained the bottle by over half in three deep swallows; the warm and slightly musty tasting liquid managing to clear the tacky dust from the back of his throat.

Natasha sighed. “You know, the rest of the world goes on, after Thanos, like it was some huge win,” she shook her head when Steve offered the bottle back. “But you come here and... nothing is different. They're still trying to recover their lives from the last time we tried to save the world. From what Tony said they've been setting off fireworks over New York for a week, now. And yet...” She pinched her mouth tight while her hand moved in a gesture that didn't manage to rise past her hip. “Steve, there are still bodies buried out there...”

Steve capped the bottle and leaned down to rest it on the flat span of concrete where footings for a future church had been laid. “I know. Bucky and I recovered a body yesterday. It was just...” and he, too, was left without a way to go on. War and battle had made death too familiar. But there was something different in clearing away the debris of a collapsed home to find its occupant... its _young_ occupant, curled beneath and little remaining but torn clothes and mud streaked bone.

He licked the taste of sweat from his lips and scraped the back of his heel along the concrete edge. “Tony say anything about the boy? Peter?” He hadn't really even met the boy; not really, other than that brief exchange on the tarmac just a little over two years ago. God, it seemed like decades since that day.

Tangled hair blew across Natasha's face in the sudden lift of a breeze and Steve closed his eyes; appreciating the cool reprieve it brought along for the ride.

“No; not really. He was his usual cryptic self – just hinting that they wanted to try “something” without bothering to divulge what that something entailed.” Then she grinned; just the flash of teeth that was gone a moment later. “Not that I can really cast stones I guess.”

Steve smiled, too, before retrieving the bottle once more. “We should head over to the base. I promised Sam that we'd meet up for lunch before we start clearing the East valley. He and Bucky are probably on their way in by now.” Finishing the last of the water he shoved the empty bottle into the pack he'd left laying near the corner of the foundation – retrieving his shirt, he slung the bag over a shoulder before following Nat down the narrow dirt path towards the operations base set up by Stark Relief. They had a few weeks remaining before it was time to head back home – to whatever reception awaited. He hadn't, himself, really spoken with Tony since... since. Defeating Thanos may have saved the universe but the chasm between them remained.

And he honestly didn't know where to begin to repair _that_.

҉

When the room had emptied the only ones remaining behind, aside from Peter, were Wanda, Stephen, Wong and, in spite of Stephen's reluctance, May Parker. The woman sat next to Peter at the head of his bed; her hand resting atop his arm. Bruce would monitor everyone's vitals from a control room in another part of the complex. Wong, meanwhile, had begun casting bright sigils on the walls, floor, and ceiling; washing everything in an orange glow like burning fire.

Preparing Wanda for her role was no small thing. Stephen's studies had found similar spells which allowed for a sort of _mind walking_ ; but in addition to being incredibly dangerous, it had never been carried out by someone who wasn't a seasoned sorcerer with years of study under their belt. Certainly not someone with as little training as Wanda. If not for Wong, Stephen wouldn't attempt this at all. Even with Wong's assistance...

“You have power; tremendous power far beyond what you've managed to tap, so far. But it's unguided. That makes you dangerous.” Stephen was seated across from Wanda – both with their legs crossed in a simple lotus position while the cloak spread around Stephen – refusing to allow its fibers to touch the floor.

Wanda visibly swelled with offense but Stephen didn't pause or allow her time to push back as he continued. “Ordinarily I'd ask that you sit this out but, to be frank, we need you.”

Her fingers woven together in her lap, the young woman nodded and licked her lips. “Okay. What do I do?”

At this Stephen glanced towards Wong, who had finished his work and had now come to stand at Wanda's shoulder. “I will guide you.”

Stephen's body sat stiff – his head bowed slightly forward but the Cloak kept him from toppling in an undignified sprawl. Across from him Wanda, too, sat with eyes closed while the liquid threads of her magic coiled about her. Having pushed his aura free from his physical form moments ago, Stephen hung near Peter's bed. His aunt, May, was speaking to him softly – calling to him. With hope the boy would be able to follow her back to where he belonged. Of course, it would take more than simply her voice.

“The breach will open momentarily,” Wong warned at Stephen's back – his friend adding his magic to steady Wanda's chaotic power. “Once you cross beyond you will be outside the bounds of my reach. As you know time does not pass the same while in your astral form. It can be easy to lose yourself if you are not vigilant. If you are unable to reach the boy within the timeframe required you must return to your body without delay.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” Not that his friend could hear him; not unless Stephen chose to push his form into the physical plane. Wong had already gone over this repeatedly with him as they were explaining Wanda's role.

Moments later, Stephen felt a rush of energy flow past him; winding around Peter's form. A cold bloom of white light opened above the bed – much like the portals created with his sling ring but laking the warmth of orange fire. Drifting closer, Stephen felt a rough tug in his belly. Then, with no further warning, he was suddenly yanked forward; catapulted through the breach and thrown down a tunnel of light – fast, faster, blazing fast that were he still occupying his form he'd surely have been overcome by nausea. Fear trickled up his limbs; sense memory trigging the impulse to blink rapidly though he felt only echoes of sensation in this form. Though nausea wasn't possible he still felt a rising unease as the bands of brilliant white continued to build speed – hurtling him faster than thought – faster than time until-

Awareness came back in the absence of light. Not even the soft luminescence about his form could penetrate the black of his surroundings. With no fear of crashing into objects he drifted forward, eyes instinctively squinting as he tried to see beyond the crushing darkness.

A hollow thud sounded directly beside his left ear and Stephen flinched – rotating just as a wedge of soft light opened up and he realized he... was in a closet.

҉

**Queens, NY - 2024**

The spear of soft light spread wider but before Stephen could examine his surroundings a heavy bundle of material thrust through his torso and thumped against the inside wall before sliding to the floor. Frowning down at the heap of clothing, he shook his head and exited into the main room – noting the figure just beginning to head out into the brightly lit hallway.

And then the person stopped; hairs on his arms visibly lifting to face back into the bedroom. It was Peter.

“Hello?”

Stephen blinked, then pushed forward. “Peter?”

The boy tilted his head, taking a few steps forward, eyes squinting. Then his nose suddenly crinkled and he bent in a rough sneeze.

“ _Pete, sweetie, you okay?”_ Apparently letting go of his trepidation, Peter left the room to respond to the woman who Stephen recognized as May. The two moved off further into the apartment while Stephen followed – taking in the room with a glance. Inexpensive but tasteful furniture – somewhat eclectic in style. Lots of framed pictures and knick-knacks – a bit cluttered but clean. The two occupants had moved into the kitchen where they continued chatting while May laid out a number of Thai take-out containers. Peter ate while he talked; wolfing down Goong Chu Chee.

Aware of his finite timeframe, Stephen circled about the apartment in agitation as dinner progressed into TV – the two resting close together on the couch – May's arm around her nephew's shoulders. Finally – finally, however, Peter yawned for the fifth time and received a nudge from his aunt. “Bedtime, kiddo.”

“Mm...” Stretching; the lack of popping joints somewhat enviable, Peter slipped his feet to the floor and scruffed his fingers through his hair. “You know, I'm kinda too old to have a bedtime.”

May smirked. “Yeah? Well I'm not.” She gave a soft push against his shoulder. “Come on – you're way too heavy to carry.”

About time. Stephen followed Peter to his door – though he stopped just outside – unwilling to enter while the boy prepared for bed. Waiting what he deemed to be a reasonable amount of time for Peter to change into pajamas (or whatever it was he wore to bed) Stephen mentally counted out another two minutes before slipping through the door.

The lights were off, though the room wasn't fully dark with the various digital items lending a soft glow.

Peter was gone.

҉

Peter missed his webs – missed the easy freedom of swinging from building to billboard to the occasional treehouse (presuming it was properly secured – what idiot didn't assure it wouldn't just fall out of the tree with a gentle tug? Kids could get hurt!).

He felt a little bad for making his aunt think he was more tired than he was. She'd been putting in so many hours at the store and was exhausted every night. But if she knew Peter was out she would always stay up – no matter how late it got.

Clinging to the edge of a burned out chimney, Peter tilted his head to take in the soft night sounds. He'd been on edge all evening. It wasn't exactly danger... though he wasn't entirely sure about that one either. Even after all this time he still felt like he was just barely figuring out his abilities. His senses, above everything else, were the hardest to get a grip on. And, without Karen, he was forced to rely solely on his... his _tingle_... to tell him what was about to happen. Of course it didn't seem to work for things like speeding trains or gently tossed fruit, apparently.

A screech pulled him back to the present – eyes searching out the shadows until he spotted two cats involved in... something really gross. Peter grimaced and slunk down from his perch; taking a small running start to leap to the next building – and then the next – working his way further towards the seedier side of Richmond Hill. Once upon a time it was populated with nice homes and good restaurants. He'd almost never needed to patrol that area – leaving it to the local cops to manage the odd burglary or mugging. Only twice had Karen led him there for anything serious. Now, though...

There were murders here nearly every night. May hadn't exactly begged him to stay away. They'd all seen worse, after all. But whenever they talked about that part of his patrol she just looked so anxious. Peter had begun to edit himself when she asked about his nights. She just didn't need to know everything.

He heard the gunshots from six blocks away. Abandoning discretion he released a web against the next house and yanked himself to the roof – bolting across the rotting shingles before firing another sticky strand at a tall billboard with a faded and peeling advertisement for a row of condos that were never built. The gunfire was steady now – what sounded like dozens of weapons. A gang battle. There were several new gangs that had cropped up throughout Queens and Peter had to break up their wars at least three or four times a month. Needless to say he wasn't popular amongst them and they had made no secret about their desire to see him very dead. Yet another reason Peter stuck with the stealth suit.

Once in position, on a rooftop overlooking the battle, Peter took a breather to evaluate the scene. There were no bodies, yet, so that was a bonus. However it was only a matter of moments before one of those shots were fatal. He couldn't wait any longer. Making his way to the deeper shadows where two buildings stood close together, Peter made a rapid descent to the ground.

A few strategic webs would clear this up in a few seconds, easy. If Jameson hadn't outed him, anyhow. At least one bright side; he was expanding his ability to develop creative solutions. For instance, the two cracked hubcaps laying amidst the trash near a burned out UPS truck...

The first hubcap ricocheted between three shooters with enough force to knock their weapons free and leave them howling from injured wrists. The second hubcap followed less than a second later – bouncing off one man's forehead before clipping the next guy above his right ear – no doubt leaving it ringing but not hard enough to knock him down. Peter's knee, however, finished the job. By the time he'd kicked himself into a backflip off the next shooter's chest, Peter was feeling that old rush flood his limbs – the thrill of stopping the bad guys. He even whooped. “Come on – that was a gimme! You guys spend all that time firing guns but you never learned how to aim?” He laughed; taking three running steps towards the hood of a car.

And something that felt like a baseball bat slammed between his shoulder blades.

Peter hit the ground on both knees – groggy from the blow that had also grazed the back of his skull; hard. Wobbling, he glanced over his shoulder. Ah, baseball bat. Of course. He ducked under the next swing but then another blow caught him in the ribs. Crap, that hurt! Did they line it with barbed wire? He looked down where his arm was wrapped over his middle. Oh.

Peter's knees gave out again and dropped him amidst the spatters of blood. His senses were on fire – screaming danger on all sides but his fight or flight seemed to have stalled out. Was he really going to die like this? It was so hard to breathe under the mask. He peeled it away – gasping – noting, in a distant kinda way, the screams and shouts that were fading out against the clatter of glass bottles and kicked refuse.

He blinked.

A pair of oddly glowy boots stepped into his line of sight. Peter slowly, slowly, tipped up his head. “Oh... hey, Doctor Strange.” And then his eyes slid shut and he collapsed on his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the day after my birthday! I stayed up till 6:30 am to get this completed!


	5. Sand, Waste, and the Rain of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets some timely medical intervention. Meanwhile, dark forces gather. Peter receives some startling news but that's nothing compared to what is to come.

҉

**Wakanda – 2019**

_**4 Weeks Earlier** _

T'Challa sat before the gathered tribal leaders; his hands resting lightly on the arms of his throne. Deliberations had been long – weeks, in fact. What he asked of his people was unprecedented and flew in the face of their long guarded traditions and natural inclination towards an insular lifestyle. In spite of the inroads into trade with select nations, their influence in global affairs was minimal at best. Change would come but it would be a long journey.

Letting his gaze touch on each of the five leaders, T'Challa finally sat forward and folded his hands together before him. Their deliberations had ended. The time to decide had come.

“On the decision set before the council, what say you?” One by one they gave their answer. One by one it was recorded and T'Challa accepted the will of his people. After they had spoken, the chamber doors were opened and a man was escorted inside; dressed in the finery of his people but with head bared in respect to the king whose throne room he occupied. He bowed, silent, before clasping his hands together and standing with shoulders straight and expression solemn. Rising to his feet, T'Challa approached the man – arms loose at his sides.

“The council has decided. Their will is the will of Wakanda. Thor Odinson, King of Asgard and guardian of the nine realms, it is so decreed that by unanimous referendum, you have been granted the lands north of the Great Plateau which henceforth will be declared New Asgard!”

A wild cheer rose among the gathered leaders, during which Thor bowed; his face beaming with a smile that could not be contained.

Beyond the council walls, several levels below the throne room, was a small yet opulent chamber. Here, thick tapestries adorned the walls while soft woven mats were scattered across the floors. The traditional décor should have been at odds with the advanced technology likewise scattered about the room and, yet, there was a harmony in this co-existence. At the chirruping alert, wrinkled hands fished deep into the folds of patterned robes to retrieve a set of Kimoyo Beads. Manipulating one of the beads, an image was brought to life. The woman on the other end of the message offered a bow and a hand across her chest before smiling.

“ _It has been decided. Thor has been granted the favor of Wakanda. I thank you for your wisdom in these matters. Without your council it is uncertain how his fate may have been resolved.”_

The elderly woman nodded at the image suspended above one glowing bead. “I am but a servant. It was the will of Thoth. Though an outsider, you will find no more powerful nor loyal an ally than Thor.”

A few more words and then the communication ended with the invitation to the feast later that evening.

Tossing aside the beads, the older woman rolled her eyes and stretched ancient limbs above her head. “Oh, I'm sure I'd be most welcome at the table.” Dropped her arms back at her sides, she allowed the glamour to peel away from her form – revealing pale skin and a decided lack of female features to take its place. Running one hand along his forearm, Loki smirked at his restoration. “Well, now, that's better.” Glancing at the beads, he smiled. “And you're welcome. Don't say I never do anything nice.”

Then, with the flick of his wrist, he opened a dark breach. Back straight, limbs loose, he walked from the room – the black void shrinking until it vanished.

**Queens – 2024**

His hands moved across the body of the young man – noting so much more than the skin and blood on the surface. Peter had, thus far, remained unconscious therefore incapable of tending to his own injury. Stephen had never been a fan of irony – less so, now, when the young man had a doctor at hand yet said doctor was little more than a shadow.

Well... perhaps somewhat more...

Stephen settled himself back – translucent appendages folded beneath his glowing form. It was, in fact, possible to affect the physical world even in this form – though the requirements were great and, with his body so distant, he was uncertain of the effectiveness. Still...

Drawing on far away energy, Stephen _pulled._

The first time he'd done this it had been an accident – caught in a battle with one of Kaecilius's acolytes. With no conscious effort, then, he'd been able to rattle a few instrument trays as well as disrupt the vending machine one floor down. Now, though...

He felt the change within minutes – the trickle of energy releasing through his form. Leaning over Peter's body, Stephen narrowed his focus to his hands, and pressed down on the seeping wound.

While not as acute as in his physical body, there was enough sensation to detect warmth and wet beneath his crossed hands. He may not be capable of surgery but, even as an astral body, he could provide at least basic medical support.

With the added pressure, as well as the pain it brought, Peter coughed and groaned; eyes rolling beneath the lids before they finally opened once more. They were glassy but the pupils were of equal size and, more importantly, he seemed mentally aware. Then he coughed again, wincing.

“What'are you do... ugh... some'one drop a house on' me?”

Stephen smirked. “Well that would make you the wicked witch but I'm pretty sure that position is filled. Not to belabor the metaphor but seeing that it's a bit apropos, I can tell you one thing, Dorothy; you aren't in Kansas anymore.”

Peter's eyebrows pinched together. “...huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Stephen lifted one palm, just slightly, to note that the bleeding had already begun to slow. “Son, the paper I could write on you...” he muttered.

Peter pushed up on his elbows and looked down at the glowing hands pressed against his abdomen. “Oh, wow, did I get shot?”

Stephen checked the wound again. The kid would need stitches at the very least. Maybe a shot of antibiotics. Super healing didn't preclude the introduction of foreign bodies, after all, and he'd rather not risk an infection not matter how blasé the kid may be about his own health. “I'll need you to put pressure on the wound; can you do that for me?” Already Stephen could feel his hold on the corporeal slipping. Peter nodded. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

Lifting his hands away, Stephen watched as Peter sloppily replaced the pressure with one palm; grunting as he pressed down. “Look, Pete, do you think you can walk? This doesn't look like the sort of alley where one wants to hang out for any length of time.”

The kid was tough, of that Stephen had no doubt, whining in the back of his throat as his braced a hand on the wall and levered himself up. With a limping gait, Peter made for the graffitied hunk of plywood acting as a sort of makeshift door on the side of the building. Pushing it aside, he shuffled through and headed for the concrete staircase just inside.

Twenty, brutal minutes later, the two of them made it to the rooftop where Peter let himself sink heavily against the wall circling the roof. His confusion was ebbing, clearly, given the studied look he gave the sorcerer.

“Okay, not to sound completely rude, but what are you even doing here?”

Stephen's eyebrows shot up. “That isn't rude?”

“Well, I said not completely rude.” Peter replied, though his face carried none of the humor that Stephen had grown used to seeing in the young man.

Leaning back away, a bit, Stephen shrugged. “Look, this is kind of a long-”

“You know, I never saw you again... after that day,” Peter bulldozed over Stephen's waffling. “After the funeral, after you left I...” he thumped his loose fist on his knee, “I figured you probably had a lot to do, you know? I mean, five years is a long time to be dead...” he face scrunched up – though for the oddity of his statement or for a different emotion, Stephen couldn't be sure. Peter rubbed his thumb across his folded leg – the other hand still clutching his injury. “I tried visiting the Sanctum a couple of times. I mean it was kinda out of the way but I figured maybe... maybe you could... Maybe you just...” his lips pinched tight. “You were never there.” And finally, finally he turned his angry glare back to Stephen. “So why are you here, now?”

A heavy sigh wouldn't be remiss – not that he was, technically, breathing at all. Stephen rubbed two blessedly pain free fingers together. “Normally this is the part where I'd give a disclaimer that what I'm about to tell you may sound unbelievable.” Stephen offered a very small small. “I think that, we can probably skip past that, given the life we've both led. Peter didn't smile back so Stephen forged ahead.

“You've heard about alternate dimensions, I'm sure?” He paused long enough for Peter to acknowledge with a jerk of his chin. “Each one is its own unique space, never intertwining nor interacting with another universe. Some are similar, with people and histories little changed save, perhaps, for one crucial difference. For example, in one universe, English is the prevailing language in the United States whereas, in another, everyone speaks Spanish.” Peter was frowning, now, but didn't interrupt what likely sounded like a complete non-sequitur. “There is no way to know how many universes there are, though attempts to catalog their number were made roughly 400 years ago.”

“Wait,” Peter sat up, wincing, and adjusted the hand on his midsection. “I thought you said the universes can't interact with one another...” Stephen nodded and Peter frowned more deeply, “right, so then how could they be cataloged? For that matter, if you can't interact with them, how can you even know they're there?”

Stephen rested his hands on his knees. “There is no known force that can breach the walls between dimensions, neither on Earth, nor within the universe,” he raised an eyebrow, “save one. An infinity stone.” His hand slid over the Eye that only appeared to be hanging from his neck. “Four centuries ago, the Sorcerer Supreme, known as The Ancient One, used one of the stones to travel between dimensions.” Allegedly for the purpose of exploration and expansion of knowledge, Stephen had long ago questioned whether the reasons were quite so simple. After all, what better way to prepare for any given danger than to first see it play out on another world?

“Through the passage of time the stone was lost; perhaps stolen or, possibly, hidden away purposefully. However it came to be that it passed from the hands of The Ancient One, the stone, ultimately, ended up with SHIELD. By now you've likely guessed the identity of this stone.”

Peter nodded. “The Tesseract.”

“Known as the Space stone, it is the only stone with the power to breach the veil between dimensions. Even so, the power is “limited”, in a sense, to being a doorway. However, that changed once it was combined with the other five stones. When used together, the strength of each stone was increased exponentially.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Peter cut in; his eyes glassy; haunted.

It was an emotion Stephen understood well. “When Thanos used all six stones to destroy half of all life, he weakened the walls between the universes. When the stones were used to bring that life back, the walls were weakened even more and, in some areas, holes formed. Now in most cases the holes were inconsequential – like pinpricks. Over time the breaches will self repair or can be restored magically. However, there are two worlds where the damage is far greater. This world... and mine.”

There was a long moment, of course, Peter taking in everything for several seconds before, suddenly, he blinked – staring at Stephen. “Wait... you're not from...?”

Stephen shook his head. “No, I'm not. And, Peter? Neither are you.”

**Kathmandu – 2024**

The body had been discovered the previous day, shortly after morning meditations. Stephen's arms were crossed tightly; the cloak sweeping back and forth as if reflecting his agitation. “Impossible.”

Wong shook his head. “Did not you, yourself, say that no power of this earth could breach the incantations guarding the library? What other explanation than a being not of this Earth? One whose sole agenda would lie in vengeance against those he holds as his greatest enemy?”

Stephen rubbed his temple. “The bargain made with Dormammu was one that not even he can break.”

Sighing, Wong replaced another book on the rack before pulling the chain back in place. “No doubt he is still keeping the essence of his deal. However, it would appear he has found a loophole – using someone else to carry out his bidding. One who has even more hatred for you than the Dark One.”

Stephen's hands clenched into painful fists. “Kaecilius.”

**Queens – 2024**

He hadn't been allowed a whole lot of time to soak in that, basically, mind-blowing revelation before the Doctor was coaxing Peter to his feet. Did he mention that it was weird seeing the sorcerer all glowey and see-through? Used to carrying his own weight, Peter kept one arm around his middle and dragged exhausted steps in the sorcerer's wake. The one question, where were they going, had been answered with the ambiguous answer of “to see a doctor”. Which... maybe not a bad idea but Peter really didn't have time for as he was trying to have an existential crisis. Other dimensions weren't real, right? He'd learned that the really hard way after that mess with Beck. But now, suddenly, they were real? And after all of his sharing, Doctor Strange had decided to go all covert right when Peter was finally getting enough breath back to ask the really important questions. Like, did the other dimension have Coke? None of that, of course, did a whole lot to counteract the feeling that he may have to throw up within the next ten to fifteen minutes. Or maybe a little sooner...

One thing he could be grateful for was the excess of dumpsters in any given alley. And Peter had spent time in a lot of alleys.

Even in his own head that sounded sketchy.

“You okay?” Doctor Strange stood... hovered... nearby while Peter gagged – the movement jarring his middle and leaving him wrung out like a dishrag.

“Yeah I'm... mmm... I'm okay.” He gulped; one hand flipping closed the dumpster lid before pulling him along the edge of the wall. “So what else is different about our worlds? I mean, aside from that you're apparently a ghost in that one?”

The sorcerer rolled his eyes. “I'm not a ghost. This is my astral form. It was the only way I could travel to this dimension.”

Peter tripped over a discarded aerosol can and squeaked out a curse. “Why couldn't you just use the, ah, the Tesseract stone?”

Strange halted his forward movement until Peter could catch up. “The stone is out of my reach. It is beyond recovery.” That was ambiguous. Also it wasn't lost on Peter that the sorcerer had never answered his question. However, he sorta forgot about it himself when he finally looked up and actually took in their destination. After a few blinks, his eyebrows lowered and he tipped his head at the luminescent farm beside him.

“Oh, right, a _Doctor_. Ha ha...”

After passing down that last side street they had approached the rear of a massive, and very recognizable, building. The Sanctum Sanctorum. Sighing, Peter moved on towards the ancient structure which pulsed with an energy that always made the hair lift on the back of his neck.

He was about to knock when Strange got his attention. “Over here. There's a private entrance, of sorts.”

The entrance barely qualified as a door and was invisible even standing directly before it. However, at Peter's touch and a few indecipherable words from the sorcerer, the door lifted away and they were able to pass through.

“Oh thank God...” Peter breathed – making immediately for one of the heavily brocaded couches in the main foyer. Doctor Strange continued on – floating up the stairs and out of sight. Peter, however, carefully shifted until he was on his back with his head propped on an overly ornate throw pillow. Utilizing the one hand that wasn't coated in a tacky film of blood, he eased up the edge of his suit away from the wound. Still bleeding in a sluggish flow but by tomorrow should be looking a lot better. He knew better than to hit it with web fluid, though. Tried that once and had the acid burns to prove it. Metaphorically.

“You know, you really need to keep pressure on that.”

Peter jumped – his free hand clamping around the back of the couch. “Dude!” His ghosty companion had, probably not deliberately, snuck up on him in a way that no physical being would have been capable. That was so not cool. “And I am keeping pressure on it. Though I wouldn't mind a couple dozen bandaids if you got em.”

The sorcerer huffed and Peter looked up to note his annoyed expression. “What, you don't have bandaids? I thought you were a doctor?”

Strange tilted his head in a wilting gaze. “Not that. There's no sign of... _me_... anywhere. I've checked everywhere I would likely be. Couldn't find Wong either.”

Peter smirked as he let his head drop back down. “See? Told ya. Never around.”

Of course his vindication lasted exactly 13 seconds; the foyer suddenly brightening with a ring of gold as two figures stepped through into the Sanctum. The conversation they'd been sharing abruptly stopped, both taking a defensive stance, as they spotted the intruders. And then Doctor Strange – the other... that world's Doctor Strange, squinted his eyes a small bit and extinguished his fiery shields.

“Well this is... unexpected.”

**Greenwich Village – 2024**

It was a risk, of course, gathering his forces so close to the enemy. And, yet, the rewards were worth any risks. The Sanctum had been built over one of the greatest sources of power in the Western Hemisphere. It was that power, utilized by Earth's sorcerers for their own selfish goals, which would now be harnessed against them.

With his followers gathered within the sacred circle, Kaecilius opened the pages of his stolen book – the performance of this ritual bringing back the elation of inviting the Dark One in. This time, however, he would not fail his master.

The words wove together above them – lighting the air in tongues of red flame which undulated and twisted in a widening circle of scorching heat. As their mantra began to rise in speed and pitch, the rolling bands of fire began to sink lower; growing brighter until they roared white. And then the first of the followers, a taller man near the outer edge of the circle, was surrounded by that brilliant white. In an instant he was living flame – the air in his lungs roasting and stealing the sounds of his agony as he was consumed. One by one his followers fell until, at last, the only one remaining was Kaecilius.

The flames, now, had reached the floor and in a burst of immolating fire, thy scorched their shape into the wood.

Kaecilius knelt – running his fingers over the deeply etched sigils still hot from the flames. Finally... everything was ready.

**Sanctum Sanctorum, New York – 2024**

While his counterpart spoke, Stephen remained crouched over the young man occupying his couch. Peter had bled quite a bit but it was clear his body was already starting to heal. The edges of the wound were pink with mending skin and Stephen estimated that within three to four days he'd be completely healed. Tying off the last stitch, he tugged down the stiff material of Peter's uniform pants to inject a broad spectrum shot of antibiotics. Peter glanced down at his work as Stephen finally straightened.

“Not bad. I give it a B plus.”

Stephen grunted. “You know I could have just let you bleed.”

“What, and stain your couch? Trust me, blood is impossible to get out of fabrics once it sets.” Peter grimaced as he eased himself upright.

Wong glanced at them over his shoulder. “If you two are finished...”

A quick wash in the basin on the other side of a small portal he'd opened, Stephen returned to the other two members of their group. The minor bit of stitching hadn't been nearly complicated enough to distract him from the conversation that had taken place behind him. However, close proximity to his counterpart gave Stephen a wave of vertigo so he made certain to keep enough distance to prevent the odd doubling effect.

“We've closed a number of breaches since the last use of the gauntlet. Unfortunately more appear to be appearing daily... and in greater number.”

The astral duplicate nodded. “We've experienced similar phenomenon in my universe as well; though from what Wong has said it isn't nearly as bad. I suspect that has to do with the fact that your Thanos used the gauntlet to destroy the stones. With that destruction your universe was, essentially, shredded. And mine did not go unscathed.”

Behind them, Peter grunted and stood – taking careful steps towards the three men. “But why would that impact your... uh, _our_... universe? Which I'm still not totally convinced is actually _our_ universe, by the way.”

It was Wong who answered the boy. “Of all the universes catalogued by The Ancient One, our two are most similar. There has been speculation that we are, in fact, one another's twin. We have a shared history and, therefore, a shared future. Or, we would have, but for a single incident. When Thanos destroyed the stones, he fractured the similarities between us. It was in that moment that our histories deviated onto two separate paths.”

Peter frowned – his eyes squinting as he clearly worked through the concept. “Okay, but, wouldn't he have just destroyed the stones in the other universe too?”

Astral Stephen shook his head. “He couldn't. The stones have a power that is immeasurable. You remember what I told you about the stone contained within the Tesseract?”

Peter nodded. “The Space stone?”

“That stone was the source of all those breaches opening throughout the universe – powered by the remaining stones. As that power leeched into our universe it would have momentarily overloaded the gauntlet carried by the Thanos of _that_ universe...”

Straightening a bit, Peter's eyes brightened. “Oh! Like blowing a fuse!”

Tipping his head back and forth, Strange acknowledged the analogy. “More or less...” Then he looked across towards his astral counterpart. “The question is, how do we repair it?”

“Well I...” The other Stephen abruptly stopped when Wong frowned; turning in a slow circle and peering about himself.

“Something is wrong...”

In that moment, the world became fire.

With a silent concussion of super-heated air, a blast of force tore through the Sanctum – pulverizing its way through objects and inhabitants alike. Only by those brief seconds of warning were they saved from immediate immolation. Slamming his hands out before him, Stephen was able to partially construct a huge shield while Wong swept Peter behind him. And then the pressure wave hit and they were all ripped from their feet and tossed like seedlings in a hurricane.

Stephen came to awareness, some uncounted amount of time later, half buried beneath a toppled rack of very heavy, very sharp cornered books. The cloak had, in the last moments, arced over his head, thus saving him from a concussion. However, that had left his midsection exposed and he could feel the sharp pain that suggested fractured ribs. He spat, noting with dispassion the globule of bright red in his saliva. “Wong?”

And then he froze.

A massive hole had opened up in the Sanctum's outer wall. Through it he could see what had once been Bleecker Street – now a blackened and burning hellscape. And, standing in the midst of it, a massive figure over thirty feet tall, red skin, and... horns.

Then, between blinks, the creature vanished.

Some time after this, Wong was at his side and peeling the fractured remains of the bookcase from his body.

“Are you alright? Is anything broken?”

He thought he'd spoken but he must not have as Wong continued attempting to gain is attention – finally placing a hand against his cheek and giving him a light shake. “Stephen!”

Realtime returned and Stephen sucked in a choke filled breath – hacking at the smoke rolling across the floor. “We... _cough_... we have to protect the Sanctum!”

“The protections are still in place in spite of the damage. After we get you to safety I'll...”

“No!” Stephen managed his feet; though he stumbled and had to grasp at the wall to keep his footing. “Wong, I saw something! Just outside. Only for a moment but...” He coughed; harder this time and for seemingly an eternity. When he finally recovered himself, Wong was helping to hold him upright.

“What was it? Outside? What did you see?” Wong steadied him until Stephen got his feet beneath him. Then stepping back, he knelt next to the unconscious shape of Peter. Of Stephen's counterpart there was no sign.

Stephen breathed hard; feeling his head begin to shake back and forth in disbelief. “I think...” he huffed, suddenly at war with a surge of panic laden giggles, “I think it was the Devil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS!!! I'm so FLIPPING excited by this chapter and fiiinally getting to bring our big bad into the game!! If you're a comic reader you probably have already guessed who he'd be. If not, you're about to find out!


	6. The Violent Against God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos - confusion - something terrible has happened.
> 
> A new enemy has taken the stage.

“ _What was it? Outside? What did you see?” Wong steadied him until Stephen got his feet beneath him. Then stepping back, he knelt next to the unconscious shape of Peter. Of Stephen's counterpart there was no sign._

_Stephen breathed hard; feeling his head begin to shake back and forth in disbelief. “I think...” he huffed, suddenly at war with a surge of panic laden giggles, “I think it was the Devil.”_

҉

**Avengers Compound – 2019**

_**Two Months Earlier** _

Tony sagged in the orthopedic chair in the dimly lit room. They had to keep the light levels down due to the hypersensitivity of the patient occupying the bed before him. Not permanent, he'd been told – they figured they'd have it resolved in a day or so. Boredom though... well, he could relate to that particular malady.

His companion had been awake for the better part of thirteen minutes.

“How long before I can finally leave this... environment?”

Tony cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “uh... about six days... give or take.” He sniffed; stretching before looking back towards the mulish gaze glaring at him with eyes a little too much like a small furious shark. “Maybe five. Look, I know you're twitchy but-”

“I was promised three days!” Nebula practically snarled as her hand curled around her plastic water jug – compressing the sides before abruptly spasming – the jug fumbling out of her grip and bouncing against the floor in a spray of water. Tony made an aborted grab for the jug before forcing his feet to the floor and making his way three feet left to where it had jostled to a stop under the edge of the counter. One hand braced on his lower back, he leaned down to collect the vessel; surprisingly mostly still full but for one largish puddle.

“Sorry – I put that one on Banner. He has a weird way of trying to make friends; what can I say.”

Unimpressed, Nebula crossed her arms and sank into herself. “This is intolerable.”

Setting the jug back on the rolling table, Tony dropped back into his chair – one hand rubbing at his left bicep. He started to speak, going so far as to open his mouth, only to let a breath through his nose instead. Dropping both hands to his lap he leaned over his knees. “You're right. And it shouldn't be taking this long. You should have been out of here a week ago. The thing is, it isn't Bruce's fault. And it isn't Strange, or Cho, or anyone else on your medical team. Those guys are rockstars and what they were able to do was astounding.” He made a cut off sound as he dropped his eyes to the fractal pattern of spilled water seeping across the tile. “This one is on me. I thought I...” he shook his head. “I let you down, kid. I'm sorry. But I'm going to make it right.”

That look, again. Searching/perplexed/cautious... and as always it twisted something within him that recognized it without creating a label. It had taken him so long to realize why it was so familiar.

Longing.

The first person to ever trigger that, for him, had been Rhodey. And it had taken him a lot of years, most of them spent without therapy (which he only, very recently, had discovered was actually a really good thing), to get a handle on what it all meant. And to not feel guilt about it.

Okay, he still felt guilt about it but, well, work in progress. He still wasn't entirely sure why he felt guilt – he just knew that he did.

So, yeah, he knew that look. He got that look. And he knew where it came from. And he wanted to curb stomp Thanos all over again.

He smiled – pointing at the slender hand still twitching, slightly, on the top of the sheet. “Mind if I...? I think I can...”

Glancing down at her misbehaving appendage, silently, Nebula reached her arm over the railing and allowed Tony to gently clasp her wrist.

Studying the surface for a moment, Tony identified the seams before looking up at the face watching him. “Is this alright?”

Quiet, for a moment, Nebula nodded. “It's alright.”

There were micro-tools in a kit alongside the bed. Unlike what he used on his suits, these were medical grade and sterile. Tony stood, once more, to wash his hands at the sink before slipping on nitrile gloves and hooking a rolling stool with one foot.

He spent the next forty minutes leaning over her wrist – magnifying glasses over his nose and humming something even he wasn't paying attention to... not until it was brought to his attention.

“What is that?”

“Hm?”

Nebula shifted – eyes averted. “That sound... song... what is it?”

Smiling, as he gently eased a nearly microscopic tube back into its equally tiny coupling, Tony rewound what had idly been slipping from his mouth. “Old seventies classic. One of Mom's favorites. “Only Yesterday” by the Carpenters.”

A trickle of lyrics whispered past his teeth; soft and tuneless.

“Only yesterday when I was sad and I was lonely

You showed me the way to leave the past and all its tears behind me

Tomorrow maybe even brighter than today

Since I threw my sadness away

Only yesterday...”

The final piece slotted into place and Tony sat back. “Okay, give that a whirl.”

Dark eyes watching him, Nebula carefully lifted her arm and flexed her fingers. The tremble was gone and, stretching her arm, she rotated her wrist and bent her elbow – her full range of motion restored. “It is better.”

Grinning, Tony took back the limb and closed up the seams once more. “Hey, not bad for an old mechanic...” and then he froze as Nebula's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

The woman was looking at him; her face doing something complicated before she sucked in a breath and shook her head. “I've never... that has never been done without... It was always my fault. If my body needed repairs... I learned how to repair myself; as much as was possible. He... _he_ always would...” her words ran out with a silent snarl and with a nearly vengeful swipe she crushed the moisture away from her cheek with her free hand.

Tony rested his hand over the blend of flesh and prosthetics that still braced on his shoulder. His teeth clacked a few times as he deliberated. Nearly a decade later and it was still a knife that twisted. But, then, maybe that's what made this important in the moment.

So he told her about a young boy – never feeling like he measured up. About a young man losing all he knew and learning to lean on another who became a stand in for something he'd never actually had – a confidant, a parent, a friend... And he told her about betrayal. About hurt. About the truths that only became revelations when he'd been able to look back with a critical eye... and truly see that Afghanistan hadn't been the first betrayal but merely the logical progression of a thousand betrayals he'd willfully ignored. Had denied. Had categorized as something, anything else than what they were.

No, it wasn't the same experience – his abuse hadn't been a physical one... well, not like hers anyhow. But there was that pattern of subtle guidance – of grooming – that had made him something he'd never wanted to be. Something he'd thought he was supposed to be... to make his father proud. To make Obie proud.

Neither one of them had been given a choice. They'd had to figure that out on their own.

Afterward they sat together. This, too, was familiar. Their shared space. The only two living things amongst a billion trillion stars.

Finally; with her newly restored hand, Nebula reached for him – waiting for him to reach back. Her fingers closed around his in a careful grip.

“I've never... This. I've never had this... before.”

Tony swallowed. He nodded and managed a damp smile. “Well, from now on, you'll never go without it.”

҉

**Avengers Compound – 2019**

_**Present** _

May had settled alongside her nephew – her voice dry as she continued talking. She'd run out of general conversation; having updated him on what she knew of Michelle and Ned as well as others; Tony and Wanda and even the two... wizards? No, sorcerers. She'd even talked about the new sandwich at Delmar's. But, ultimately, she'd exhausted the topics worth covering and had slipped back into far older tactics employed when Peter was very young. She sang. Not good singing – she knew her weaknesses along with her strengths and singing was very firmly in the former.

On the other side of the room, bathed in a weird crimson glow and seeming to be utterly unaware of her – or really anything else – the three magic people remained in the exact positions they'd been in since the start. She wondered if anyone had to go to the bathroom besides herself? This had been going on for almost three hours, after all...

And then the shorter man, Wong, breathed in, sharp.

“Something is happening...”

The question, born of that enigmatic statement, never made it past her tongue.

It was a throbbing silence – like sound had been stolen from the world. She felt pressure wrap her from head to toe and even screaming did nothing – though she felt it shred across her throat. She couldn't even tell if she could still see – there were pounding battalions of light and black and clips of imagery but so much jumbled – so fast – she couldn't...

She was certain she never blacked out but there was a very slow rise back to some kinda consciousness. There was a form bent over her and it took a tremendously long time to recognize it as Bruce Banner. Eons later she turned her head – drawn to the bed that held her nephew that was, somehow, on the opposite side of the room from her. Bruce said something... something.

She winced and maybe moaned, though she couldn't hear her own voice, as a wadded cloth was pressed against her ears. The hand holding it there adjusted position and when it was lifted away she saw the stain of blood. She made her mouth say “Peter”. She saw Bruce's mouth say something that looked like “he's okay.” She'd be the judge of that.

Shadow skipped across the floor and she turned her head the other way. Wong was kneeling and there was blood trickling from his nose and one ear. He was holding something... someone... and looked afraid. Nearby, Tony and the android, Vision, were doing something with Wanda. The young woman was on her back and not moving. Blood not only coated her mouth from a massive nose bleed, but also wept bright red tears from her half open eyes. In those seconds to follow, May was certain the girl was dead. But then more people charged into the room and, while May was still trying to understand who she even was, she was maneuvered onto a backboard and they were taking her out of the room and suddenly Peter was being left behind and she tried to roll – slapping at the hands trying to keep her down – furious and frantic and... And then Tony was there – also frantic but with that face that claimed otherwise and she knew he was talking but the only words she could recognize were “Peter” and “okay” – over and over again. And then sometime after this a warm something began to seep into a vein. And then she didn't think anymore.

҉

**Sanctum Sanctorum - 2024**

The bright sigils faded along with the flames they'd extinguished and Stephen knelt to heave a blackened hunk of rubble aside with hands that cramped and spasmed from the effort. What remained of the person beneath was enough to challenge even his stoic command of his faculties. A twist of his fingers conjured another red flag; which he left suspended above yet another human tragedy. Another failure.

How had he missed all of this? Fourteen million, six hundred and five possible outcomes to defeating the greatest foe the universe would ever face. But what did they gain in return?

Something was wrong. This wasn't what he had seen – not like this. The world hadn't restored itself, it had grown worse; far worse. The numbers of dead, since the Return, had climbed exponentially. News outlets offered conflicting information – some blaming it on governmental mismanagement while others blamed everything from secret weapons tests to the Rapture. And, all the while, the death toll rose.

And now this...

Crumbled brick shifted behind him but Stephen didn't turn – knowing the cause.

“Were there any survivors?”

Wong stopped at his side – his eyes scanning out across the desolation of what had once been a thriving community. “Some. Though, of those few, most will not live to see the morning.”

Stephen's head lowered to his hands and he scrubbed heavily. A moment later, the weight of a gentle palm rested on his shoulders.

“Come. There is nothing more we can do here.”

The Cloak, hidden across his back in the form of a light jacket, gave a subtle tug back towards the Sanctum. Stephen closed his eyes and breathed. But there just wasn't time for grief. There wasn't time for anything.

“We need to find... whatever that was.”

Silence followed his comment – not like he'd provided anything actionable beyond vague intent. And then Wong stiffened at his side; letting out a small sound. “It appears that will not be a problem.”

Frowning, Stephen glanced towards his friend, only to note the direction of his stare. He turned...

A wide, flaming, circle had opened in a molten passage above the still smoldering heart of Greenwich Village. Through the raw opening, just visible through the heat ripples, was a familiar location – one that sent Stephen's heart to his throat.

Kamar Taj.

One last, alarmed glance towards Wong, and the two of them raced towards the portal.

҉

**Avengers Compound - 2019**

For all of the shouting there actually appeared to be something like progress happening. Swear to God, for a minute or ten Tony had been certain there'd been some sorta nuclear strike. The entire compound had lit up like Judgement Day – the retinal assault alone leaving everyone blind for about five minutes. Anyone closer than 15 feet to Peter's room had suffered some level of hearing loss. Anyone inside the room had their eardrums ruptured. Needless to say, the surgery team had been busy for a spell.

Tony had been spared, of course. Bruce as well along with Vision, and the six people monitoring equipment were likewise uninjured. The two people just outside the room, placed there to keep a closer watch on the activity, had been less lucky. One of them, a young woman apprenticing with Bruce, had actually had a grand mal seizure and had been raced to the medical wing the moment her body stopped shuddering.

Inside the room had been... well... pandemonium.

Tony groaned and leaned over his knees. “God, I'd give my liver for the most disgusting cup of vending machine joe.”

“I am not a deity but I can provide you with something suitable. It won't even cost you an organ.”

Tony lifted his head to see Wong standing over him – a tall mug of something smelling of hazelnut steaming in his hands. He nearly groaned as he accepted the mug and took a deep, indulgent, gulp.

“Guhhh... I am soooo worshipping at your sandals. Just name a time and place and I'll be there with my yoga mat.”

The other man actually smirked, but it was soon smoothed away with a crinkle across his forehead. Tony licked his lips and held the warm ceramic in both hands.

“How is he?”

“Unconscious. What's more, Stephen's astral form appears to be cut off from his physical body.”

Tony took another sip. “So, like Peter?”

Wong shook his head. “Peter remains attached to his spirit. His condition is stable. Stephen, however, is already becoming weaker, the longer his body and spirit remain apart. Soon he will lapse into a coma. If much time passes he...” and here his stiff delivery fumbled and Tony saw the eggshell cracks split across the surface of his unaffected affect. Reached out one hand, he braced it on the other man's bicep.

“Hey – Strange is one of the toughest guys I know.” and he nearly winced at the platitude. God, he hated platitudes. Regrouping, he gave a small pat before returning both hands to his mug. “I never told you about Titan, did I.” Of course he hadn't. Tony spent the better part of most days actively keeping those memories from his conscious thoughts. That was the sorta shit best savored in nightmares alongside gaping holes in the sky and watching Pepper fall to her death. But he'd also been informed, as of his last therapy visit to an actual therapist – licensed and everything – that talking out his shit could, in theory, help. And, hey, bonus if it helped someone else at the same time.

It was hard, going back to that blood red planet and the arid sand and death. He kept his hands clenched around his cup because it was easier to disguise the shaking. Wong actually smirked, briefly, when he told him about the self-proclaimed “Guardians” aka Dark Star meets Space Balls. No need to rehash his own personal trauma, there was plenty to tell with regards to Stephen's single-handed battle with Thanos. The sorcerer, alone, had nearly been enough...

The last of his coffee had long been finished by the time he reached the end. Without a word, Wong lifted the empty mug from his fingers. Then, with a small dip of his head, he stood.

“I need to return to Stephen's room.” He took four steps but, then, eased to a stop. Turning in profile, he glanced towards where Tony still sat. “Thank you. I...” he licked his lips before breathing out. “Thank you.” Leaving the rest of his words in the air, he turned and walked back down the hallway until he disappeared around the corner.

҉

**Location Unknown - 2024**

Stephen came to himself somewhere dark. Something was... something felt off... wrong... and... Pain. He could feel pain – blinding – searing as it cut through him and... why...? How could he feel pain?

Everything felt directionless – black. There were no cues to orientation without the pressure of gravity to guide him and he remained in that dark, far too long, hoping for anything to provide guidance.

But he couldn't remain there endlessly.

The shift from deep black to less black was minimal but enough – a backdrop of smoke and ash hung in the sky like soot stained clouds.

He rose higher, then, seeking a point of reference. A building – possibly the harbor. The Statue of Liberty would come in handy about now.

But what he saw triggered first puzzlement – then a bladed slice of fear across his chest. Because there were no buildings. The was no harbor. The was certainly no statue with her golden torch held aloft. Instead, he saw fire. No mere blaze, this was carnage on a massive scale. Thick and oily on the surface – molten red spattered and swirled like river rapids – broken only by shiny jagged rock thrust up from the depth and gleaming black. Further on, still, the heat sink crafted writhing shapes – some almost human whereas others weren't even close – craggy creatures of smoke and steam sprouting gnarled and twisted growths from their spines.

Crawling dread worked its way up his limbs – freezing him in place and would have left him gasping were he capable of breath.

Blinking rapidly – Stephens hands hung slack and empty at his sides.

“Where the hell am I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are are staying safe. You are all in my thoughts during this awful upheaval. Hoping and praying for peace and reason to soon return.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title taken from Dante's Inferno
> 
> This is gonna be a long one! It will likely take a bit of time between chapters but we WILL get there. This thing has been completely plotted/outlined from start to finish which is unusual for me. 
> 
> @KitCat992 is officially a co-writer of this. She plotted out 99% of this during what started out as a random chat but suddenly morphed into a serious brainstorming session. The villain is 100% her idea and everything epic about this exists because of her. Let me just say, I cannot wait to show you what we have!


End file.
